


A Good, Old-Fashioned MacManus Family Christmas

by agdgoddess



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Liberal use of the word fuck, M/M, Merry Fuckin' Christmas, Twincest, Which Certainly Illustrates the Diversity of the Word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-24 22:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17109695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdgoddess/pseuds/agdgoddess
Summary: Murphy wants to spend Christmas somewhere cold, somewhere where he can taste the hint of snow in the air even if it never actually falls.Connor and Murphy head to the city that never sleeps for Christmas.





	A Good, Old-Fashioned MacManus Family Christmas

 

It's a crazy notion, one that should be immediately dismissed, but after spending all of the last seven years in Boston, he hates not watching the leaves turning vivid oranges and yellows and reds, despite seeing far too much of that color lately for his liking. Being surrounded by palm trees for Thanksgiving is some sort of sick joke, and the prospect of Christmas lights wrapped around their slender trunks pisses him off like no other.

Murphy wants to spend Christmas somewhere cold, somewhere where he can taste the hint of snow in the air even if it never actually falls. Florida was the perfect place to hide these past months, keeping them busy with more drug lords and human traffickers than they could possibly make a dent in, and, although the humidity drove them both bonkers, they'd only had to drive into Georgia once to escape an oncoming hurricane. Escaping down to the Keys had also been a welcome respite. Driving over that suspended ribbon of highway above placid, azure waters that matched Connor's eyes had been a memorable experience, as was spending the following days fishing and fucking and drinking cervezas until they could barely stand. But now, Murphy's ready to give the entire state of Florida the finger and never look back.

The whole country knows who they are, but the heat is much too intense to return to Boston, even with Smecker on their side pulling the necessary strings. He mulls over them disappearing into the anonymity of New York City once more, almost missing the smell of piss and garbage everywhere. Miami's too shiny, too bright. He yearns for grit, for gray and the ability to skulk in shadows without anyone looking at them twice. Wearing blue jeans and black t-shirts in 90 percent humidity in the middle of August tends to draw some curious looks, but there's no way in hell he's gonna wear shorts and flip flops like the other tossers down here.

He posits leaving Miami while Connor drives their piece of shit sedan past ugly, dilapidated warehouses, scanning for nefarious activity as they have no current targets on their radar. Which, Murphy suggests, is another reason to get the fuck out of here already. Connor agrees, but not about heading north.

"West," he states definitively, as though the matter's not up for debate.

Murphy snorts. "No way in fuckin' hell I'm spending Christmas in the middle of a desert, surrounded by cacti and palm trees. Fuck that!"

"We don't have to go that far west. Louisiana, or Texas maybe?" Murphy's answering glare causes Connor to sigh. "Fine. We'll leave the south." Connor's quick assent makes Murphy believe his brother hates it down here as much as he does. "Chicago?" Connor's next suggestion is a good compromise--a big, crime-ridden city that's cold as fuck and they haven't been there yet. He considers it briefly and dismisses it just as quickly.

Murphy's dead set upon New York City and his stubbornness outmatches even that of his twin. They're both headstrong as fuck--it's a MacManus trait after all--and Murphy knows he will eventually get his way. He gives in to Connor on most things, usually because he doesn't care all that much to begin with, but when he really wants something, Connor's the one who eventually capitulates, as though he can't bear to deny Murphy anything. That's why they began fucking each other in the first place--Murphy's sheer obstinance, although Connor certainly hasn't complained once since.

"Murph," Connor starts, and that voice means that he's in for a bit of a lecture. "I know ya miss Boston and this is our first Christmas since shit went down, but it's downright stupid."

"New York, Conn. Not Boston," Murphy butts in, snarl curling his lips around the cigarette filter.

"Which is just as fuckin' dumb! Look, thanks to our short whirlwind through there with Da after Yakavetta, the NYPD's just as keen on catching us as the feds are, and it's not worth the risk."

"That was six months ago! C'mon, Connor!" Murphy realizes he's whining but he's beyond giving a shit. "We'll lay low. Not draw any attention to ourselves, just a few hits and nothin' like last time. If anything, they'll think it's a couple more copycats." His eyes flick to the left where Connor is clearing weighing his words, mind churning and Murphy presses on. "We'll make it sloppy and Smecker'll convince them that it's some stupid posers and we couldn't possibly be daft enough to come back up there."

"Except we are that fuckin' daft." There's a hint of amusement in Connor's voice and Murphy knows he's got him.

"Nope. Fuckin' smart, hidin' out right under their fucking noses!" He grins at Connor, radiant and wide and endearing, perfectly aware of how it fucking melts Connor's heart.

His brother's answering smile is loving and conciliatory and Murphy can't wait to kiss those lips as they murmur, "Alright, Murph."

 

* * *

 

An hour later and Murphy's packing with something akin to glee. He places his pea coat on the top of the rest of his clothing in his duffle, already itching for when he can don it once more as his fingers stroke the heavy wool fondly. Connor studies his own coat with a frown. "Should we get new coats?"

"What the fuck for?"

"We were wearin' 'em at the courthouse. They all know we wear them."

"Half the fuckin' men in the city wear these kind of coats in the winter. If anything, we'll blend in even more." Connor's sigh as he shoves it into his bag tells Murphy he's not entirely convinced. "Ya worry too fuckin' much," says Murphy, adoration for his twin causing his voice to soften.

Connor rolls his eyes and pushes against Murphy's shoulder. "One of us should, at least." Murphy takes no offense to that. He knows Connor loves his impetuous, care-free spirit, just as he loves Connor's methodical nature and propensity to overthink. Their differences are what help keep them alive and also what help keep them in love.

They spend the next six hours driving up Highway 95 past Jacksonville in comfortable silence, smoking and finding half-decent songs on the radio. As they approach the state line, Murphy sits up in anticipation and as they blur past the sign welcoming them to Georgia, he throws a very emphatic bird behind him out the open passenger window. Beside him, Connor simply laughs.

 

* * *

 

They take a wide berth around the DC metropolitan area, agreeing that keeping away from FBI headquarters is a no-brainer. As much as they both loathe politicians and would love to deliver a few of those supposedly God-fearing men to their Maker, not getting caught's priority number one. Corruption, greed, desire for power runs so deep, it's as though that city was built upon it rather than a swamp and they vow that one day they'll throw caution to the wind and clean house. Just not today.

 

* * *

 

Smecker hooks them up with an abandoned studio in a crumbling brick building in the Lower East Side. It had been used in the past to house FBI informants and witnesses, but apparently was deemed too shabby to serve such purposes these days, becoming lost in the shuffle of paperwork with the meager monthly rent still being paid. "It won't be nearly as nice as that former palace of yours in Boston, but you'll manage somehow," Smecker drawls sarcastically with a quick flash of his toothy smile. "On the upside, your fellow tenants go out of their way not to hear or see anything," he adds more seriously, throwing them the set of keys and disappearing into the night, leaving behind a trail of smoke and Ck One.

That's music to Murphy's ears, for multiple reasons besides the obvious ones that apply to their calling. He loves it when they can be as loud they want, Connor's moans and groans so fucking arousing when he truly lets go and throws caution to the wind. He plans on seeing just how vocal he can make his brother as soon as they walk through the door.

It's not much and there's a layer of dust on every surface but it more than meets their needs. There's a couch and coffee table on one side of the room and double bed on the other, and a tiny kitchen with working appliances. There's water and electricity and the radiator blessedly starts hissing and spitting, but there's no cable, which has Connor grumbling as he turns off the old, useless television. "Guess you'll just have to spend your time watchin' me then, won't you?" propositions Murphy, eyebrows waggling as strips out of his wrinkled t-shirt and walks to the bathroom. He knows that Connor follows him, stalking him predatorily, and anticipation makes Murphy's cock throb as he realizes he's about to be fucked good and hard up against those mildewed shower tiles.

After properly christening the bed as well, they explore, popping into a divey pub two blocks down. The burgers and fries are mediocre but they have Guinness on tap, so it stands a good chance of becoming their local haunt while in the neighborhood. Tomorrow, they'll hit the laundromat next door to their building and do a couple loads. Neither are particularly fastidious, but those sheets are too fucking musty, even for them, and Murphy's tired of turning his boxer shorts inside-out.

They each light up a smoke in tandem, full and warm and sated, listening to the din of the bar around them as they down their pints, and for the first time since they left Boston, Murphy almost feels like he's home.

 

* * *

 

Connor snorts upon exiting the bathroom and observing Murphy standing haphazardly on a wobbly chair, attempting to hang a plastic piece of mistletoe over their front door. A bag's on the nearby table and Connor paws through it as Murphy struggles with the tape. "Really?" Connor demands as he holds up the cheap fairy lights that Murphy intends to hang in their one window and gestures to the bundle of green leaves and red ribbon in his twin's hand.

"Fuck, yes, really." The piece of shit finally sticks to the door frame and Murphy crows triumphantly as he jumps off the chair, purposefully remaining under the mistletoe. "Get your arse over here, Conn," he demands in a low voice, devilish smirk on his lips as he points his index finger up.

"You've truly lost it, haven't ya?" Connor gripes, eyeing the offending tradition with obvious disdain, arms crossed resolutely over his chest.

"Aye, perhaps," Murphy concedes before upping the stakes. "But if _your_ beautiful mouth isn't on mine in five seconds, then _my_ beautiful mouth won't be on your cock again 'til after New Year's."

Connor drops his arms and rolls his eyes dramatically, but Murphy doesn't even have to begin counting down before Connor's lips mold themselves around his own, huffing the entire time. Murphy chuckles a bit and returns the kiss enthusiastically, giving him one last filthy lick with his tongue before Connor pulls away. Murphy swats his ass and teases, "Fuckin' Grinch," under his breath as he moves to the fridge to grab them each a beer before setting to work on the lights.

The next evening, Murphy's chest swells when he returns to the flat with take-out and sees the poinsettia sitting on their crappy kitchen table. It's missing a few large leaves and looks a bit pathetic, but is merry regardless. Pouncing upon Connor napping on the dusty couch, he strips them both naked in record time. The tinny sound of old-timey Christmas carols comes from the ancient radio in the corner and Murphy rides his brother, filled to the brim with joy and Connor's cock.

 

* * *

 

There's a serial rapist preying the vicinity around Thompson Square Park. Three women have been attacked in the past two weeks and delivering this motherfucker to the Almighty has become their New Year's resolution. The twins frequent the area as much as possible, their innate ability to ascertain innocent from guilty incredibly useful. They ignore the crack dealers and gang members, for now, and focus upon finding the rapist, having it narrowed down to a few shifty characters whom they study closely. They refuse to act until they're positive they have the right man, watching and following from the shadows, taking careful note of what the men wear and in which building each reside.

The Saints bide their time and wait, knowing their patience will be rewarded in due course.

 

* * *

 

Murphy demands they go see the massive tree in Rockefeller Center, even though he'll hate being jostled by the throngs of tourists, which, he loathes to admit, includes them since they don't technically live in the city. Connor complains the entire subway ride there, but it's pointless to argue. Murphy's Christmas spirit is infectious and by the time they climb the steps up to the street, they're both shoving and laughing at each other like schoolboys once more.

It's cold, much too cold for their bare ears, so Murphy yanks them over to a table on the sidewalk laden with cheap winter hats. They opt for Mets beanies because they sure as fuck aren't going to wear anything with a Yankees logo on it, plus the enemy of their enemy is their friend. Whenever another fan says "Go Mets!" as they pass, Connor responds with an enthusiastic "Go Sox!" and the ensuing confused looks make Murphy snicker every time. Connor's nothing but devoted, loyal to a fucking fault.

Needless to say, they don't have to buy gloves.

They thread their way towards the tree, blending in with the crowd yet standing out with how effortlessly and assuredly they move with so many people around. They stare up at the twinkling length of it, its sheer size making even them feel small in comparison. Connor wraps his right arm over Murphy's shoulders, drawing him close, and whispers an endearment that causes his twin to smile bashfully. Connor's rare with spoken affections, which make them all the more precious, and Murphy treasures each and every word.

They watch the skaters on the ice rink and Murphy teases Connor about his lack of coordination on skates, which they discovered one day in Boston years ago, never to repeat the disastrous experiment. Murphy was surprisingly graceful and he'd made it a point to comfort Connor's jealous, and bruised, ass most thoroughly. His brother's still miffed about the whole thing and Murphy just loves to push his buttons. He'll make sure he pushes much more pleasurable buttons later tonight.

After checking out the obscenely exorbitant window displays strung along Fifth Avenue, they stop for an overpriced Irish coffee to warm up a bit before venturing back to the flat. All in all, it's a very pleasant evening.

 

* * *

 

Il Duce's been haunting the northeast like some sort of wraith, barely seen and impossible to catch, leaving a slew of bodies in his wake. They'd parted ways after New York, separating to keep the feds off their tails and to be less conspicuous. The brothers are positive the real reason's that their father has his own long list of vendettas to settle and wants to do it alone, not that they mind in the slightest. Il Duce is a rabid motherfucker and would only pull them down into his own shit.

Plus, it's extremely hard to fuck one's twin brother when one's father is constantly around. Murphy couldn't remember having been so goddamn irritable in all his life. He'd felt as though he was going through physical withdrawals from not being able to kiss, touch, taste, fuck Connor--fingers twitching, teeth gnawing on cuticles, tongue worrying chapped lips. Connor had been better at hiding it than Murphy, although he'd spent an inordinate amount of time by himself in the bathroom exhausting their hot water supply. He always looked a bit more relaxed after his alone time, and the thought of what his brother had been doing in there turned Murphy on even more. Wanking doesn't take the edge off for Murphy like it does Connor. For him, it's Connor or nothing and has been since that first exquisite taste.

It should surprise them more than it actually does when they turn the corner of their hallway and discover Noah leaning stiffly against the wall across from their door, expression as blank as his eyes. Connor startles imperceptibly, shifting himself to the right as to completely block Murphy in a clear display of guarding his twin. Besides the bag clutched in his left hand, he looks exactly the same as when they saw him last. Black cap pulled low, black trench coat, black boots, everything black, black, black. Connor continues to stand between Il Duce and Murphy, using his body as a shield, as Murphy unlocks the door and enters, Connor following him without turning his back to their father. Murphy gestures wordlessly for Noah to enter and his twin's laser-focused eyes track the older man's every movement sharply as they all sit around the kitchen table.

Noah places his two pistols next to the bag on the table between them, obviously aware of their unease. "What about the others?" Connor demands, knowing of his father's propensity to carry six handguns sheathed in that deadly vest of his.

"This isn't a job," he replies as though it should be self-explanatory. They don't return the favor of laying down their weapons and Noah doesn't comment, merely lighting up one of his acrid cigars that soon envelopes the three of them in a thick, gray haze. Murphy offers him a beer, which he politely declines, so he and Connor refrain as well.

They catch up on their going-ons since they split, with Il Duce purposefully omitting how he tracked them down, but the conversation seems a bit stilted and forced, which, Murphy reflects, is how it's always been between them and Noah. Learning that they were without a da for so long due to him being locked up because he's a hit man for the highest bidder tends to make for a strained relationship, especially considering the first time they all met, they tried to kill each other.

After some time, the discourse draws to a natural close and they all stand as Noah prepares to make his exit. He motions to the bag he brought with him, indicating that it's for them and they should open it.

Inside, the crinkled paper bag holds a bottle of Jameson, two boxes of bullets, a carton of their favorite smokes and two rolls of shiny, new pennies. Connor clasps their father's shoulder awkwardly while Murphy simply offers his hand for a shake. Noah clears his throat, says "Merry Christmas, boys," in his gruff voice and swiftly leaves out the front door without looking back. They've no idea when or where they'll see him again, understanding that it won't be before he wants them to. It's a bit reassuring that he keeps tabs on them, but more than a bit unnerving as well.

Murphy digs through the bag and pulls out the whiskey. "Well, should we save this for Christmas or open it now?" he asks, searching the stony mask still set upon Connor's face.

"Now," asserts Connor levelly and as he takes his left hand out of his coat pocket to reach for the bottle, it dawns on Murphy that Connor's Veritas-inked finger has been on the trigger of his concealed Beretta this entire time, always protecting Murphy--even from their own da.

 

* * *

 

The day before Christmas Eve, Murphy escapes quickly to the holiday market in Union Square because fuck if he's not going to buy his everything a Christmas gift. He decides on a handcrafted black leather belt, which Connor's in desperate need of, thanks in large part to Murphy. His urgency to get at his twin's cock usually means he rips at the fastening more forcibly than necessary, and both the abused leather notch in the strap and the buckle are hanging on for dear life.

He's not entirely unselfish, though. The thought of that pristine black leather restraining Connor's wrists above his head, of his brother writhing beneath him while Murphy has his wicked way with him has Murphy hard the entire subway ride home.

 

* * *

 

They pinpoint the rapist at last. After Murphy had returned from the market, they'd patrolled the blocks around the park until they recognized that hideous jacket, following him as he stalked his latest victim, a pretty blonde. Circumnavigating swiftly through back alleys, they'd intercepted the woman before the sick bastard could strike, asking her for directions, oozing charm while keeping their distance so as not to frighten her. By the time they'd finished the short exchange with the woman who had no idea she'd been saved, the fucker had vanished. The twins had then trailed her home to ensure her safety, thankful they'd been there to prevent her from becoming the fourth victim. They're annoyed they couldn't finish him last night, but it's not a big deal since they know exactly where to find him.

On the morning of the 24th, they fight about whether to take him out today, and if they can't today, then whether they should the following day. Connor says they shouldn't kill anyone on Christmas Eve or the day of the Lord's birth, even if they are beyond redeeming while Murphy argues that that's precisely why they should.

"A dark, vile soul all wrapped up and delivered, ready for condemnation? Perfect birthday present, don't ya think?"

"Why don't we give Jesus a stocking full of coal while we're at it, Murph? It doesn't bring him any joy to damn 'em. Fuckin' hell!"

Murphy relents and gives in, not necessarily because he believes Connor to be right and not before a few half-hearted punches are thrown between them. He'd merely prefer to spend the whole day tomorrow naked in bed together, after Midnight Mass of course. They may be brothers who fuck one another, but they're dutiful Catholics and missing Mass on Christmas is not a fucking option.

 

* * *

 

It's a toss of the coin whether to call their Ma when they know she's drunk or not. Sober, she's probably hungover and cranky, but less prone to lectures and guilt trips as she lets her genuine worry for them come across. Drunk, she's unstable and scolding, yet hilarious and affectionate, although they can never believe a fucking word out of her mouth. They still haven't recovered from her suicidal shenanigans last St. Patrick's day, let alone hearing her say bigger cock in reference to her own sons. Murphy's pretty sure he's scarred for life.

They decide to call the Anvil at two in the morning Christmas Day, Ireland time. Attending Midnight Mass means Ma didn't get drunk beforehand, but has had enough time since to get a few whiskeys under her belt. Uncle Sibeal answers after four rings and the raucous laughter in the background means their family holiday tradition--also known as getting so pissed as to see double--is well underway. They exchange a few pleasantries with their uncle, then wait for him to hunt down his sister. The snow drifts down in fluffy flakes, and they're thankful it will be a short conversation, partying being the main priority for Annabelle.

"Connor? Murphy? Is that you? Do you little shites know what time it is here?" She's further into her cups than they expected.

"Yes, Ma. That's why we called the Anvil. We knew you'd be there celebratin' with the family," Connor spells out, as one would to a toddler.

"Aye, and you're interrupting my drinkin' time!"

"And a fuckin' Merry Christmas to you too, Ma!" Murphy shouts sardonically in the phone.

"Oi! Shut the fuck up, all of ya! Wish Happy Christmas to the twins!" she hollers, and the cheers and yells of dozens of family members comes across the line so loudly that they have to hold the receiver away from their ears. It's good to know they're missed. If they're lucky, one day they'll be there in person once more.

They chat amicably with their mother, with her filling them in on the latest exploits of family members and fellow villagers, with heavy focus on how their second cousin Bernadette's husband moved out because he finally decided to come out of the closet, and how everyone already knew it anyway, even his own wife. "That's the reason they don't have kids! He couldn't get it up long enough to stick it in her!"

"Ma! Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Connor swears, wincing as he waits for the admonition for using the Lord's name in vain, but Annabelle's already plowed into the next bit of juicy gossip. Before long, the recording instructing them to put in more quarters comes on, and, blessedly, they are out of coins.

"Ma!" Murphy yells above the background noise of the pub. "Ma! We gotta go! We're outta time on the payphone."

"Alright, alright. Now, no killin' tomorrow! It's Christ's fuckin' birthday!" she tells them somewhere between a cackle and an admonishment. Connor raises his left eyebrow archly, wordlessly telling Murphy _I_ _told you so_ and Murphy responds by childishly sticking out his tongue.

"Aye, Ma," Connor reassures her dutifully and she tells them what good boys they are, ignoring the fact that they're killers. She's aware of what they do and why, although the twins never share any details with her, especially concerning their location. Annabelle accepts it as best as a devoted Catholic mother can, fearing for the eternal souls of her sons. However, she's also seen plenty of evil men during her time and the havoc they wreak, so she supports their cause, especially as it came per God's divine intervention. They're thankful for her support and for the fact that, despite being a raving drunk, she knows how to keep her bloody trap shut. They're fairly certain at this point that she'll take which one of them actually came out first to her grave.

They exchange their goodbyes, in the middle of which the connection is cut off. The night around them quiets too suddenly and they acutely feel the loss of the sounds of their family's joyful festivities and their ma's voice. As insufferable as she can be sometimes, they both really fucking miss her.

 

* * *

 

Connor joins him on the fire escape, Murphy finishing his smoke and enjoying the silent night surrounding him. They just got back from Mass, and the snow acts as muffling blanket over the city, creating an eerily beautiful and unnaturally peaceful setting for millions of people. He comprehends it's an impossibility, but he can envision them living here permanently. He wishes it could be that simple.

"Tomorrow, aye?" Connor asks softly and Murphy murmurs his agreement as he flicks away his cigarette butt. They don't expound further, leaving the details of killing the rapist for the next morning, both unwilling to sully such a holy day with talk of bloodshed, however deserved.

Connor clears his throat and when Murphy turns and faces him, he brings a long, flat box wrapped in a cheap red ribbon from behind his back, holding it out to Murphy, a shy sweet smile tugging up the left side of his mouth. "Aww, Conn," Murphy beams, reaching for it before remembering his own gift. "Hang on. I'll be right back!" he instructs before clambering hurriedly through the open window to retrieve it.

Murphy opens his first upon Connor's insistence and is genuinely surprised at the contents within the box. His mouth opens in happy shock, and although Connor ducks his head a bit in embarrassment, his eyes are so fucking blue and earnest as he explains, not that he needs to.

"It's something you always used to do and I know ya miss it. I miss it, too. You're so talented, Murph, and ya shouldn't let it go to waste."

His eyes are not filling with tears as he thumbs through the large, leather-bound sketch book, fingertips stroking the package of drawing pencils in various shades of gray graphite. It's the wind whipping around them on the fire escape that burns his eyes and not the consuming love he has for Connor and that which Connor has for him. He gave up drawing shortly after moving to Boston, where manual labor became necessary for survival and he'd been too exhausted for any other hobbies besides drinking and fighting. He certainly hasn't picked up a pencil since he started having sex with Connor, and his mind dizzies with the prospect of sketching the long, lithe lines of Connor's naked, gorgeously sculpted body. He yearns to capture the blazing possession in Connor's heated eyes, the alluring curves of Connor's full lips, the handsome scruff dusting Connor's chiseled jawline, the perfect contours of Connor's stiff cock. Hint of a blush blooms across Connor's cheeks as if he can read his twin's mind, and the slight nod of his head signals he's more than on-board for being Murphy's muse. Christ, he wants to start yesterday.

Connor loves his belt, of course, and doesn't hesitate to tell Murphy how much he's looking forward to using it to spank Murphy's naughty ass. His brother drives him fucking crazy and knows it. Fucker.

The snow's drifting down still, puffy flakes sticking in Connor's hair, and the glow of city lights illuminates it so he appears almost holy, sky blue eyes glittering and that brilliant smile so cheerful and easy. Murphy's brain liquefies and his heart races and he's never been so hopelessly in love with his brother as in this moment. He takes a mental picture to later document in his sketch book.

It's absolutely fuckin' perfect, as is the kiss they then share.

"Merry Christmas, Murph."

"Merry Christmas, Conn."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
